Campus confidential, p.3
Campus Confidential, page 3
My plans hit a snag when I ran out of paper halfway through printing out the RUSS 101 syllabi, which were each a bloated 15 pages long. I had inherited them from Professor Cahill, via Linda, who had emailed them to me last week with the information that, as they had already been approved by CurCom (the Curriculum Committee), they mustn’t be changed.
All TLASC syllabi are required to have appropriate language regarding learning outcomes, grading, the Honor Code, and access to essential student services such as the Learning Center, the Office of Disability Services, and the Student Wellness Center, she had written, in a statement obviously copied and pasted from somewhere else. Remember that syllabi are a contract between the instructor and the student, and treat them accordingly. Failure to uphold the terms of the syllabus could leave the College open to legal proceedings.
Unfortunately, the six pages of legalese that had been shoehorned into what should have been a simple document meant that the actually useful information, like assignments and when they were due, was hidden away starting on page 8, and also that after printing off ten of them, I had used up all my printer paper.
I searched around for another ream, but that must have been one of the things I had opted not to bring with me in order to save space and packing time. Well, I needed to go shopping anyway.
“Guard the house with extreme ferocity while I’m gone,” I told Fevronia, and set off to have a new and exciting experience in my life: a visit to a Jersey mall.
5
With my head stuffed full of Jersey stereotypes from a lifetime of exposure to Springsteen, Bon Jovi, Jersey Shore, The Sopranos, and the Stephanie Plum novels, I had high hopes for the Franklin Mall, but in fact it was much like any other American mall I’d ever been to, although, like everything else I’d seen so far in Jersey, more worn down and depressing, and packed with rude customers on the inside and rude drivers on the outside. Lots of rude drivers.
After a couple of detours to get lost, get gas (an operation made unexpectedly complicated by the fact that there was no self-service option—turns out in Jersey you’re not allowed to pump your own gas. I wondered what it would be like to work pumping gas, day in and day out, and if I could get a job like that if this professor thing didn’t work out, like it was threatening to), get take-out Chinese, and get lost again, this time in another super-scary neighborhood that would have looked more at home in Haiti than in what was supposed to be one of the richer and more forward-thinking states in the US of A, I made it back to Pleasant Hill, clutching my ream of paper, my dinner, groceries for the next few days including the all-important cat food, and a burning awareness of how much money I had left.
$937 left on my credit card limit to be precise, with $429 in my checking account. Putting down first and last month’s rent on the apartment, which cost an eye-watering $1,300/month for a one-bedroom, one-bathroom place with stains in the carpet and a kitchen faucet that threatened to rip out in my hand every time I turned on the hot water, plus a summer of COBRA insurance—my TA health plan had been cut the moment I had stepped off the stage at my hooding ceremony—followed by getting private health insurance for the fall, plus renting the moving pod and shipping all my stuff over here, had drained my already meager finances dry.
As a VAP—Visiting Assistant Professor—I was going to get a flat $15,000 for the semester, no benefits, to teach two classes. The actual adjuncts were probably getting $4,000-5,000 per course, also with no benefits. I was making less than what I had made per credit hour as a TA, and as a TA I had had health insurance.
My courses each met for four hours a week, not the more standard three, and I had agreed, since if I didn’t do it, no one would, thus ruining some student’s college experience and possibly scuttling their ability to graduate on time, to teach a 1.5-hour advanced independent study as well, so really I would be teaching 9.5 credit hours, while being compensated for teaching six credit hours. And I wouldn’t get my first paycheck until September 30, and it would only be a half paycheck, for the period of September 1-15. And somehow I had to buy my plane ticket to San Antonio for the ASEEES (Association for Slavic, East European, and Eurasian Studies) convention in November.
“I hope you like cheap cat food,” I said to Fevronia, who had come out from under the bed and was winding around my ankles hopefully, now that her internal clock was telling her it was the witching hour when cats were fed.
Fevronia fixed me with a stern yellow eye and waited for me to dish out her food, which she nibbled at for a moment before abandoning in disdain. I hoped it would grow on her with a little more hunger.
I opened the container of Kung Pow Tofu I had gotten in a fit of weakness and lack of enthusiasm for unpacking and washing all my kitchen utensils, and nibbled at it with an equal lack of enthusiasm. Maybe Fevronia had the right idea. It was certainly something that under other circumstances I would abandon with disdain myself. But since I was hungry and that $937 had to last 65 more days, since my September 30 paycheck would all go straight to making rent, I started forcing down forkfuls while going back online.
Out of habit I checked Novaya Gazeta and Kommersantъ, before opening up the site for Nezavisimaya Pravda (Independent Truth) and scanning it for a familiar byline...a text popped up on Skype.
John Halley: What the FUCK are the rooskies doing in Donetsk?
Rowena Halley: Um...what the Americans are doing in Syria? Or Afghanistan? Providing humanitarian aid and training? Isn’t that what you’re doing?
John Halley: Don’t give me that shit. Don’t make this about me. Plus, haven’t you heard? We’re going to be pulling out any day now.
Rowena Halley: Really?
John Halley: That’s what they keep promising me. I’ll believe it when I step back onto that sweet, sweet US soil.
Rowena Halley: I hope it happens soon. What time is it for you? Shouldn’t you be—what do you call it—“getting some rack time”?
John Halley: Can’t sleep. Thought I’d check on my little sister. How’s the new job?
Rowena Halley: OK.
John Halley: Just OK?
Rowena Halley: Yep.
John Halley: It must really suck, then.
Rowena Halley: Yep. Pretty much.
John Halley: How poor are you?
Rowena Halley: It’ll be OK.
John Halley: So pretty fucking poor.
Rowena Halley: Yep.
John Halley: Let me know if you need anything.
Rowena Halley: Sure.
John Halley: I’m fucking serious, Ro. Let me know if you need anything.
Rowena Halley: You’re not exactly rich yourself.
John Halley: I can still bail you out if you need it.
Rowena Halley: Thank you. I appreciate it.
John Halley: Anyone try to mess with you at work?
Rowena Halley: Well, it’s only been a few hours so far, so only a little.
John Halley: Just remember what I taught you about kicking people in the balls.
Rowena Halley: I don’t think that will help in this situation.
John Halley: I find it helps in most situations.
Rowena Halley: Not if they don’t have balls.
John Halley: ☺ ☺ ☺ Well kick ‘em wherever they’re weak. But I’m serious, Ro: You’re a professor. You’re in charge now. You can’t let people hassle you or give you shit.
Rowena Halley: I know.
John Halley: I don’t think you do, but maybe you’ll figure it out. And I’m sorry the job sucks. At least it’s only for a few months, right?
Rowena Halley: Right. It ends in December.
John Halley: Any prospects for January?
Rowena Halley: Not yet. There aren’t a lot of jobs just for the spring semester.
John Halley: You’ll find something. Or you can always move into my place if you have to.
Rowena Halley: You mean in Jackson-hell? Or is it Fayette-nam?
John Halley: No, Fayette-nam is where those Army mofos are. Jacksonville’s nice. You’d like it.
Rowena Halley: I’m sure.
John Halley: At least you’d have a roof over your head. And I’d set you up with some of my buddies, but...nah. I can’t be having them fucking my kid sister.
Rowena Halley: I appreciate the lovely, chivalrous sentiment.
John Halley: All the ladies do. So what are you going to do if you don’t get a job?
Rowena Halley: Come begging for shelter in Jackson-hell, I guess.
John Halley: You know it’s there for you. And there might be work. Uncle Sam’s always looking for Russian speakers, especially now.
Rowena Halley: Yeah. Maybe we should have been looking for them a little earlier, and then we wouldn’t be in this mess.
John Halley: Yeah...I can’t even argue with you on that one. Too bad you didn’t enlist like I told you to. Then you wouldn’t be dealing with this bullshit. You would have gone to the DLI and have your pick of opportunities.
Rowena Halley: Yeah, my pick of interrogation booths at Abu Ghraib. And if I were a very, very good girl, maybe my very own black site. Maybe GITMO! I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba.
John Halley: God DAMN it, Ro! Idealism won’t put food on the table.
Rowena Halley: Because it was hardheaded pragmatism that made you decide to become one of the Few, the Proud, and rake in the big bucks while sitting back in safety and comfort.
John Halley: Fuck you, Ro.
Rowena Halley: Face it: you’ll always be Ivanhoe at heart.
John Halley: FUCK YOU, RO.
Rowena Halley: Mom and Dad still hope you’ll go back to your real name—and one of these days you will.
John Halley: HELL NO.
Rowena Halley: What do your “buddies” think when they find out your real name?
John Halley: THEY DON’T. IT’S NOT MY FUCKING REAL NAME. MY NAME IS JOHN. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SUCH A FUCKING PAIN IN THE ASS?????
Rowena Halley: Because I’m your kid sister?
John Halley: Point taken. Okay, jobs. Do you have a plan?
Rowena Halley: Yes. My plan is to apply to all the jobs that come up.
John Halley: Even the shit ones?
Rowena Halley: I think the shit ones are the only ones I can get.
John Halley: Don’t sell yourself short, Ro.
Rowena Halley: I’m not. I’m being a hardheaded pragmatist. I spent 11 months applying to 75 jobs, which were all the jobs in North America and most of Eurasia that I was remotely qualified for, and this is the one I got. Which is way better than what most of my peers ended up with. Maybe things will be better this cycle, but the job market sucks and it isn’t going to get any better any time soon. So it’s shit jobs or no jobs.
John Halley: Now is the time to put in that application with the CIA.
Rowena Halley: I’d never get a security clearance.
John Halley: You don’t know that.
Rowena Halley: Okay, I’d probably never get a security clearance. Besides, you know I can’t work there.
John Halley: For fuck’s sake, Ro, they’re not THAT evil.
Rowena Halley: It’s not that. Well, it is, but it’s not JUST that. It’s that I’d probably have to cut off all contact with Russian nationals.
John Halley: I think in the case of the Russian nationals you tend to run with, they’d be more likely to want you to recruit them as assets.
Rowena Halley: Even worse! I don’t want to do that. I CAN’T do that.
John Halley: Why the fuck not? What Russian is so important that you can’t grab the one chance at the one job that might keep you from streetwalking?
Rowena Halley: Thanks, bro.
John Halley: Don’t sass me, Ro. I heard you talking with your friend about becoming a stripper.
Rowena Halley: It was a joke. Sort of. It seemed less demeaning and more secure than academia.
John Halley: And maybe you’re right. If you end up in Jackson-hell you can look into it. There’s certainly plenty of opportunity there. But in the meantime, for Chrissake put in an app with the Agency. What Russians can’t you give up? It’s not still Dima, is it?
Rowena Halley: It’s lots of people. Like three-quarters of my friends. Like my advisor.
John Halley: You hate that bitch!
Rowena Halley: Yeah, but you can’t just break up with your advisor. It’s like breaking up with your spouse. With whom you have a child. I still need her for recommendations, things like that. And it’s ten years of college and most of my adult life.
John Halley: You’ll make new friends, Ro. You’ll find other people to write recommendations.
Rowena Halley: But not right away.
John Halley: Just promise me you’ll put in an app ASAP. And look into jobs on—I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this—Army bases (vomit vomit).
Rowena Halley: I applied. They didn’t take me.
John Halley: Those motherfuckers! What do you expect from the Army, though. What about the Air Force?
Rowena Halley: There was a job at the Air Force Academy. I applied. Didn’t even get a first-round interview.
John Halley: Bunch of fucking pussies. You’re better off without them and their lacy panties.
Rowena Halley: Do I have to deconstruct the sexism behind that remark?
John Halley: Jesus Christ. Academia HAS fucked you up and good. Promise me you’ll get out of there.
Rowena Halley: And do what?
John Halley: Just put in the app, okay? You don’t need all those Russians you can’t seem to give up. Especially not him.
Rowena Halley: Maybe.
John Halley: Do you know where he is now?
I looked at my laptop screen.
Rowena Halley: Apparently Donetsk. He has an article up about it.
John Halley: MOTHERFUCKER.
Rowena Halley: It’s his job.
John Halley: Yeah, till he gets his super-brave, idealistic, I-hate-Putin ass blown to hell or tortured to death.
Rowena Halley: I know.
John Halley: And he kicked you to the curb anyway! He chose Putin over you!
Rowena Halley: Um...
John Halley: You know what I mean. He chose his obsession with Putin over you, after you went to grad school and everything for him, just to try and get a safe, secure job back in the States that would still let you travel to Russia while he screwed around deciding where he wanted to live ON YOUR MONEY. And how the fuck has that turned out? You’re over in the States thinking about becoming a stripper in order to put food on the table, and he’s yahooing around some fucking war zone, pretending it’s because of his precious principles and not because he can’t wait to get his next fix of fighting.
Rowena Halley: Because you would be any different.
John Halley: I know I wouldn’t, which is why I fucking know how fucked up it is.
Rowena Halley: I know. I’m not hanging around waiting for him. But no three-letter agency is going to hire me now.
John Halley: They might be pretty fucking desperate right about now...shit, Ro, I have to go. Check in soon, okay? And let me know if you need to crash at my place.
Rowena Halley: Thanks, bro. I will.
6
After that bracing textual exchange with my brother, it was still only 7:00pm, which meant I had at least another hour, or better yet, two, of self-imposed work time. I put my newly acquired ream of paper to good use by printing off the rest of my syllabi and stapling them together and putting them in labeled file folders for each class.
7:30. I couldn’t justify quitting now. Even though it was only August 25, I surfed through the AATSEEL (American Association of Teachers of Slavic and East European Languages) job listings, HERC (Higher Education Recruitment Consortium), and, even though it wasn’t time yet for the fall listings to come out, the MLA JIL (Modern Language Association’s Job Information List), before breaking down and going onto USAJOBS.gov just to tell John I’d done so. But the only job currently posted that required Russian expertise was as a park ranger in Sitka, Alaska. While I would have happily moved out to Sitka, Alaska, in exchange for work, it was a temporary position that asked for at least three years’ prior experience as a park ranger in a northern environment. Preference given to those with extensive grizzly bear evasion training.
I wondered how difficult grizzly bear evasion training could be. I would totally do it, if I weren’t sure that there were dozens of other, more qualified, candidates already lined up.
My evening ended like so many other evenings had for the past year, with me on The Wiki, as we called it, or the academic job search wiki for my field. The 2014-15 job search page for Russian/Slavic had just been put up this week, but so far there were no jobs except for a super-hurtful open rank chair search for a Modern Languages department that someone must have put up just to torment the rest of us.
Instead of actual job postings there were anxious anonymous messages about why there were no jobs except for that open rank chair search, even though we all knew that the tenure-track jobs wouldn’t start being posted until next week, anyway, with the VAPs and better lecturer postings not coming until October at the earliest, and trickling in over the next two semesters, with the adjunct positions appearing in the late spring and summer, as the hundred-plus job seekers still remaining after all the tenure-track positions had been filled grew hungrier and hungrier, like snakes in a particularly overcrowded snake pit.
As I had told John, last year I had applied for all the jobs. All the jobs on the East Coast, the Midwest, the South, the West Coast, and most of Eurasia. At first it had been fun, imagining what it would be like to get that tenure-track position at Duke, that postdoc at Stanford, or that swish three-year visiting position with the possibility of renewal at Williams.
